Mycroft Academy
by ddggrule
Summary: John Watson, the perfect student at London's prestigious Mycroft Academy, an environment ruled by wealth and gossip, of which he is king. His life is seemingly laid out before him. And then a mysterious new student comes along, and changes everything...
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1.**

_Rise and shine beautiful people, it's Gossip Girl, here to harken in a new year, a new term and (for many of you) a new start here at Mycroft Academy.  
__To think it's been a full eight weeks since last you heard from me. What can I say, duty called. While you were all enjoying the summer sun, cocktails and a life of leisure, some of us had rumors to stir, marriages to end and a certain astronomy professor to sack.  
__Gossip never ceases, so neither can I.  
__Speaking of astronomy, word on the street is that, in amongst all those new lower sixth students I'll be so eager to knock down a peg or two in the coming weeks, Mycroft is to play host to the son of a rather prominent public figure. Of course, where would the mystery be if I named names, but I'm sure at least this one you can figure out on your own - and, get this, he doesn't quite understand our place in the universe.  
__Read between the lines, dear readers.  
__But, alas, time is running short and the school bell is waiting to ring. Be sure to have fun catching up with one another (though I know all there is to be caught up on as it is), and remember: I only live while your lives stay interesting.  
__Make the first day memorable, Mycroft.  
__xoxo Gossip Girl._

* * *

For John Watson, seeing those imposing black gates, the portal between reality and the academy, it was like coming home.

Summer had been long and uneventful. As was customary, he'd spent time with his brother, Harry, down in Cornwall. They had sun, they had drink, they had women, and they'd had six weeks to lap it all up. Though while his brother couldn't get enough, he soon found himself yearning to be elsewhere as the novelty wore off, like it always did.

As soon as he crossed over from London into Mycroft, the familiarity swept over him, as if he was reunited with a long lost friend. Fellow students bustled about, bags slung over their shoulders, coffees in one hand and phones in the other. Nearly every student to meet his eye offered some form of greeting, were it a simple nod or a full outspoken "hello", and John returned the gesture with a glowing smile he couldn't help but wear on his face.

He strolled up the white steps of Mycroft's main hall, through its bold wooden doors and into the chaos, as old and new students hurried around, desperately trying to get ahold of their new timetables and make their way to first period.

"Oi, Watson!"

John looked around for the familiar voice, and saw Irene standing over by one of the many boards covered in individual students' lesson plans.

"Oi, Adler!" he shouted back at her with a grin, and she beckoned him over with her hand, returning the smile.

"Before you start worrying you're gonna have to dive into that mess," she said as he walked up to her, pointing over at a mass of students fighting to get close to one of the boards, "you needn't bother, as I have already procured yours."

She flashed one of her beaming smiles and handed John over his timetable.

"Why thank you," he said back, glancing over his schedule. "Brilliant! First two periods, I have nothing."

Irene grimaced. "Alright for some, isn't it? I've been landed with double Chemistry and then double Maths, all on a Monday morning. How sadistic is that?"

John laughed and patted Irene on the shoulder, giving her a mock-sympathy look. "Well Irene, what can I say. That's the price you pay for being a smart-arsed bitch with a superiority complex."

Irene gasped, mouth dropping, and slapped John's hand away. "How dare you John!" she exclaimed, hand on heart and feigning injury. "I'm hurt, really I am," she continued, "but, for the record, it's not a complex darling, it's a fact."

John just laughed again, and noticed that the hall had began clearing out as students made their way to their first lesson of the new term. "Look, no doubt we'll catch up at lunch and you can tell me all about your trip round...what country was it this time?"

Irene raised an eyebrow in a shamefully suggestive manner. "Oh, it was La belle France, Watson, la très belle France with its très beaux hommes and their très beaux tans and muscles."

With an eyeroll, John replied "Well, yes, you can tell me all about that at lunch then, but perhaps spare me the gory details?"

Irene winked. "Don't worry, I don't want to make you jealous."

John chuckled before turning on the spot and walking away, calling back "What exactly is there to be jealous of again?"

He smiled as he rounded the corner on his way to the dormitories, and heard Irene protest back at him "John Watson, I swear to God, you are the most dreadful man...!"

* * *

Strolling across the courtyard, John remembered how Mycroft even smelled different to the rest of London. Its circumference was covered with a massive stone wall, sealing it off from the rest of the city, and in the academy's little bubble everything seemed more vibrant and more alive to him. The grass greener, the water clearer, the air fresher, the sun brighter... John really did love this place, and his place in it.

He stopped outside the building containing the boys' dormitories, staring at its massive size and seemingly-ancient gothic architecture. It was located in the North-East quarter of the academy's estate, while the girls' dormitories were in the North-West.

"Ah, our Lord and Master returns!" came Mrs. Hudson's voice as she walked out of the entrance to the dorms, holding out her arms.

John walked up to her with a smile, hugging her fondly. "Ah Mrs. Hudson, it's good to be back. Summer was too long."

She released him from her grip and looked him up and down. "I see you've got a bit of a tan there John!" she said, delighted, before she knotted her brow. "Though, you've gotten a bit...thin..."

John grunted. "Yeah, a diet of very little food, a lot of alcohol and next-to-no rugby training can do this to you, it would seem."

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms and looked stern. "Now, you listen to me boy, just because you're King of the Castle here at Mycroft doesn't give you the right to go off like some crazed playboy out there in the big bad world, you hear me?"

While she meant well, John had a hard time not giggling slightly at Mrs. Hudson's motherly concern. Being head of the boys' dormitories meant she was in charge of keeping them all in check, making sure they kept the place tidy and weren't out of order. What with John being captain of the academy's internationally renowned rugby squad, it also meant she spent a lot of time waiting on John whenever he was bed-bound with an injury. Which turned out to be quite a lot of the time, as John was unnaturally accident-prone.

"It's okay ma'am," he began, "there was no 'playing around' this summer. My brother does enough of that for the both of us..."

Mrs. Hudson made a noise, not entirely convinced, before remembering something. "Oh yes! Your brother called, actually, and he's had someone deliver all your things to your room for you to unpack."

"Great," John replied, "and that reminds me: which dorm am I in this term?"

"You're down the Baker Street corridor, room 221B. It's a two-man dorm. I can't quite remember who you're sharing with, but I'm sure you'll meet him later on this evening as it is," she replied.

John smiled. "Cheers Mrs. H. Anyway, I should probably go and unpack... Two free periods to start the new term with. Not bad going!"

Again, Mrs. Hudson didn't look convinced. "Are you lying to me, John Watson? Playing truant are we? That good for nothing brother of yours best not be putting ideas into your head..."

* * *

John's morning passed rapidly. He'd managed to unpack not even half of his things before he needed to head out for his first lesson of the day, double Fitness. He caught up with all the lads in the changing rooms before they headed out and tossed a ball around the field, all amazed at how much their summers had affected their fitness levels - John's stamina had plummeted, and after an hour of ball exercises and gentle jogging he was already beginning to feel the strain. A few weeks in the gym would get him back on form, he thought.

He headed back over to the academy's white stairs at lunchtime to meet Irene, who'd already gone to the trouble of grabbing him a coffee and a sandwich from the deli across the road from the academy.

"Not in the mood for cafeteria food today, are we?" John asked her.

"God no," she replied, looking disgusted. "That stuff's just about edible at the best of times, and besides, it was something with tuna in it today. And you know what I'm like about fish."

John made a face. "I happen to like tuna!"

"Well, that's tough," Irene shot back, "because I refuse to sit here with someone whose breath reeks of death. Besides, I got you that chicken and bacon baguette you're so fond of."

"Oh," John said, raising an eyebrow and unwrapping the baguette. "Well, I suppose I can forgive you," he added with a smile.

Everybody's phones began vibrating and beeping and whirring into life.

Irene's face lit up and she clapped her hands together. "At last, the first GG text of the new term!"

John smiled at her enthusiasm, and checked his own phone. He didn't really pay Gossip Girl that much heed, but he'd still subscribed simply because he would get too much grief off of Irene had he not.

_Hello everyone. Enjoy playing catch-up?  
__I notice some newbies have yet to subscribe to me. Be dears and keep them up to speed, would you? Can't have too much social suicide now, can we?  
__But did you hear.  
__The prodigal son has arrived, and with the sun as high in the sky as it is right now, let's hope he's willing to acknowledge its existence today.  
__Be sure to make him feel welcome, like Drew Barrymore did for E.T., because alien's exactly what you're dealing with.  
__xoxo Gossip Girl_

John looked up from the text and over at Irene. "I read about this new guy on her blog this morning. Who is he? She's not exactly letting on much..."

Irene scoffed at him. "Jeez Watson, how stupid are you today? It's the son of Doctor Holmes. That's the new kid!"

He thought to himself for a moment. "Wait, Doctor Holmes. _The _Doctor Holmes? As in the the owner of half of London's property? The estate agent socialite _legend_?"

Irene nodded. "That's the man, though apparently his son is nothing like him. From what I've heard, the Doctor won't take him to any events or social gatherings he has... He's ashamed of him."

"Ashamed?" John asked.

"Yeah," Irene continued, "because his son literally couldn't care less about any of that. He's always scruffily dressed, rude-mannered and ill-tempered. Or, at least, that's what Gary told me."

"Huh. He sounds interesting, if you ask me," John said, taking a bit of his baguette. "Wait, who's Gary?"

"Oh!" Irene put her hands to her mouth and her eyes lit up. "Well," she began, placing her hands on John's knees and leaning in, "he's this rather dashing young man I get to spend the next term sitting across from in Chemistry. Him and his family are always invited to the Holmes' parties, so he's in a great position for all the gossip. And while I listen to him ranting on about that, I get to stare at his perfectly formed jaw and enticing eyes! God, I'm glad women can multi-task..."

John put his head in his hands. "You and the fellas, Irene... I swear, our sex isn't safe with you on this Earth."

Irene gave a wicked smile at that comment, and John just burst out laughing.

* * *

John couldn't believe the time when he looked down at his watch and it was already 4:30pm.

The first day back at the academy always seemed to fly by, with lessons not really being lessons, more an excuse for the students to sit around and talk to each other, as well as the teachers to introduce themselves. Having now met his new teacher in Biology and Physics for the year, which incidentally turned out to be the same man, he knew he was going to hate every second of both of them - Dr. Milverton was an old-fashioned piece of work, whose methods of teaching were as dull as his monotone voice. Good thing he enjoyed the subjects themselves, Watson thought, else he may as well not bother attending class.

As he made his way back over to his room, his phone sounded from in his pocket.

_Text Message: Irene Adler.  
__I know who your new roommate is!  
__Be nice, mister, and try not to be put off like the rest of us.  
__Adler xx_

John wondered what she meant to himself, walking up the stairs to the Baker Street corridor. He must be one of the newer students, he thought, as Irene was acting all mysterious. It was either that, or he'd been landed with someone he downright hated, like that Moriarty guy in his Fitness class.

He opened the door to his room to discover that his bed had been now fully made, and the rest of his clothes from the morning had been tidied away; the work of Mrs. Hudson, no doubt.

The dorms at Mycroft were more like full on studio apartments. Every dormitory had the same layout: a large square room with two separate beds in the top corners, each bed with its own bedside table and lamp; a wardrobe against the wall at the foot of the bed; a desk next to the wardrobe; a large window on the wall in between the two beds, directly opposite the door, which (in his case) overlooked the courtyard. There was a large amount of wall and floor space, which John was always grateful for; photos he'd take over the year would decorate the walls, and the floor space was always valuable for his exercises, and his dirty laundry. He wasn't exactly the cleanest person.

As Mrs. Hudson had chosen to set him up on the left hand side bed, he walked over and sat down on it, staring across at the other bed which had one large, black leather suitcase dumped on top of it. The suitcase was old, clearly a hand-me-down, scratched and used to within an inch of its life, and the arms of unfolded shirts and the legs of unfolded jeans hung out from inside it, as if the clothes had all just been shoved in there and the suitcase closed in a hurry.

For a reason John couldn't explain, he felt the need to unpack it. He figured whoever his roommate was, they didn't seem to be appearing anytime soon, and John thought they'd appreciate it if he unpacked for them.

He got up of his bed and walked up to the suitcase, throwing the lid open and staring at the mess inside. He couldn't believe Mrs. Hudson had allowed whoever this was onto the premises, hating untidiness as she did. He set up the ironing board that was hung behind the door, and got to work ironing each item of clothing from the stranger's suitcase, folding it up and piling them neatly on top of their bed.

"You wear a lot of white shirts and black trousers, mate," he said aloud to himself as he went, and when he'd finished the last shirt, he noticed a small black book at the bottom of the suitcase. He picked it up, checked the inside cover, and saw it read _Property of S.H._

"Well," John said out loud again, "I may not know who you are, but at least I know your initials."

"Sherlock Holmes."

John nearly squealed, jumping and turning around lightening fast, dropping the book. The guy who spoke the words was standing in the doorway, wild curly dark hair, a thin almost-gaunt white face. The guy was tall, taller than he was, yet obviously younger, and he wore a long dark trench coat that seemed to swallow his entire body, complete with a red woolen scarf around his neck.

"S-Sorry?" John asked back, still slightly surprised.

The stranger walked in and looked at the folded clothes on the bed. "I see you took the liberty of rifling through my suitcase and disturbing my things. A bit...intimate a thing to do for someone you've never met, is it not?"

John couldn't believe how deep, dark and somehow soft his voice was. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking... I was bored, and yes... Well..."

"Do you do that often?" the guy asked him, and John blinked. "Not think, do you do that often?"

"Uh..." John hesitated. "I'm sure a lot of people would say I do, yes," he finally finished with a smile.

The stranger looked at him, perplexed. "How I envy you," he said.

John stared back at him, looking directly into his eyes, eyes that seemed to see straight through him, clinical and factual, almost cold and robotic. They were different colours, one more green than the other, blue. "Your name," John began, realising he was staring too much, "your name... Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," he replied matter-of-factly, "and it would appear, for now, that the address is 221B Baker Street Corridor, Mycroft Academy. I take it you are who I'm sharing my room with? John Watson?"

John blinked again. "Uhm, yes. That's me, hi," he replied, walking forward to shake Sherlock's hand. Sherlock grasped his and shook, and John noted how large his hands were. "H-How did you know my name?" he asked.

Sherlock looked at him like he was braindead. "The man I'll be spending the next year of my life sharing a room with? You expect me not to find out a little about you beforehand?"

John frowned, confused. "But...how did you manage it? I like to think I know pretty much everything and everyone here, yet I couldn't find out that I'd be sharing a dorm with you this year."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, with a bemused grin.

"Mycroft normally keeps that under wraps," John continued, "until you actually meet the person face to face, to save them from any disagreements or bickering... Y'know, in case people don't like who they've been paired with..."

Sherlock smiled, but his eyes did not. "I knew that about you, the academy's... icon, if you will."

John was sure that, had anyone else said that to him, it would've been meant as a compliment. From this Sherlock guy, however, it felt more like an accusation, even an insult. "What has that got to do with...? Icon..?"

Sherlock looked down at their hands, which still held onto each others'. John followed his look, and quickly broke the grip, embarrassed, digging his hands into his pocket and walking over to sit down on his bed. He looked up, and Sherlock was still staring at him. No, staring _into_ him, this intense and dangerously inquisitive look that made John feel like he was a children's book Sherlock could read effortlessly.

"Every student at this academy and every teacher acknowledges you when you walk past them," Sherlock began, "so it's obvious they all know who you are, and that you've made quite the name for yourself here. The way you walk around this place, comfortable and sure of yourself, you clearly know every corner of it; it's like you're the personification of it. You not only unpacked my suitcase, but you ironed and folded my clothes, and while I'll do my best to make sure I make them scruffy again, you did this like it was the most natural thing in the world. This academy's routine and expectations are a part of you."

John blinked.

"Add to this," Sherlock continued, "that you're the head of Mycroft's rugby team, and that your best friend is the academy's very own "it" girl...not to the mention the frankly alarming familiarity you and Mrs. Hudson seem to share with one another, despite her position in this country's rather medical and impersonal education system... and, well, yes. I think it's fair to say you are a perfect representation and product of this academy."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at John, as if to say _"Did I miss anything?"_, and John tasted something sour inside his mouth. Sherlock made him sound like such a...robot.

"That's a lot to be leveling at someone you've only just met," he responded at last.

"I like to think my first impressions are unique," Sherlock answered back, before throwing himself camply onto his bed and laying on his back, collecting his small black book that John had dropped on the floor.

John rested his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands, glancing back over at the odd stranger. While he could take what he'd said the wrong way and be put off that his personality, to this guy, was simply an extension of Mycroft Academy, he decided he wasn't worth it, and found himself actually admiring Sherlock's blunt honesty.

"You're looking at me again," he heard him say, before looking away and apologising.

"I-I'm sorry," John stammered, blushing. "It's just...well, you're pretty...fascinating."

Sherlock shot him a look that John could only call utter surprise, and he found himself instantly regretting his choice of words. Fascinating? _Fascinating?_ Had he ever told anyone in the world they were fascinating, let alone someone he just met?

"Y-You think I'm fascinating?" Sherlock asked back, his eyes alight with stunned appreciation. "Really? You're not...put off by me?"

John swallowed and took a minute before replying, partly to think of his answer and dig himself out of this hole, and partly because this Sherlock character seemed to have him, well, flustered. "Why would I be put off by you?" he finally asked back.

"Most people are. Most people don't say I'm fascinating." Sherlock smiled, sadly.

They'd only just met, but John had a sudden understanding of the man, like he'd known him for far longer. Sherlock was lonely, and Sherlock was used to rejection. "What do people normally say?" he asked, almost a little too softly.

Sherlock's smile weakened. "Piss off."

They sat in silence for a moment, still staring at each other across the room from their separate beds. For some unknown reason, John found himself chuckling.

"Do I amuse you?" Sherlock questioned him, perplexed.

John continued to giggle. "You do, yes," he replied, "but in a good way. Definitely in a good way." He sighed to himself, and smiled again over at Sherlock. "The robot and the alien, eh?"

Sherlock continued to look perplexed, and then John's phone sounded into life.

"Judging by the twenty or so people out in the courtyard who've also just checked their phones at the same time as you," Sherlock stated, "I gather Gossip Girl is broadcasting again."

"You know about Gossip Girl?" John asked him, surprised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, standing up and walking over to sit down next to him on his bed. "Of course I do."

John pulled the phone out from his pocket, and the screen lit up.

_So, Day One's been and gone. Are you back into the swing of things yet my dear Upper Sixth?  
__As for all you Lower Sixth, I'm so thrilled to see so many of you popping up on my mailing list. You sure know how to make a girl happy.  
__I can't believe it's been but a day, and already I have so much to share with you: everyone's favourite scandalous Bohemian has been making her way round France (and through its men); everyone's favourite James has already gathered up more requests for his expulsion than previously thought possible; and our very own resident celebrity, the son of Doctor Holmes, has gone and shacked up with our very own resident sports star in the boys' dormitories.  
__Now now girls, keep those fangirl squeals to a minimum please.  
__I hope to see you all bright and early tomorrow morning, gossiping away.  
__Until then, do your homework, be model citizens, and would someone please tell Mrs. Hudson that cerise is not her colour?  
__xoxo Gossip Girl_

John looked back up at Sherlock, who seemed lost in thought. "Any questions?" he asked.

"Only one," Sherlock replied. "Why has your school bought into this?"

John threw his hands and the air with a smile. "I honestly couldn't tell you. The kids in this school, their obsession with all things material and media... They'll all have watched this show, and decided that they wanted in on the idea, and so some poor bugger's been given the task of spying on the lot of us and letting the rest of us know."

Sherlock grunted. "I suppose it keeps you from being bored."

"Well," John began, "you could say that. The only reason I'm on her mailing list is to check up on what she says on me. It's very rare I'm not included these days, in her texts and on her blog, so I like to know what she's spreading."

"It doesn't bother you," Sherlock asked, concerned, "that the majority of the student body out there know your affairs?"

John shrugged. "Not really, no. Especially when mine are almost always out done by Irene's..."

"Ah," Sherlock sounded with the raise of an eyebrow, "the scandalous Bohemian I take it?"

"How did you...?" John paused for a moment.

Sherlock grinned. "It was hardly a chore to deduce. I remember the headlines earlier in the summer, 'A Scandal In Bohemia'. You can't be as...liberal as she is and not get attention, especially when your mother controls nearly every art institution in the country."

John smirked. "Don't tell me this means you know who else she's on about too then?"

"Well, there's you and me at the end there," Sherlock countered, "how is that not obvious? Though I haven't been here long enough, or this James character simply isn't _interesting_ enough, for me to know anything about him yet. Care to fill me in?"

"James Moriarty," John all but groaned, "or Jim, to most of the student body. A right piece of work, him. Utterly brilliant, don't get me wrong, wickedly clever and a damn fine sportsman..."

Sherlock looked interested. "But...?" he pressed.

"But," John continued, "there's something wrong about him. I mean, he's your standard tearaway student; his parents have more money than sense, he's set for life, so why should he care about an education, and he lets his teachers know this. It's just...it doesn't end there. Things happen around that guy, bad things. No one's ever sure or not if he's involved or not, and he doesn't go out of his way to dispel suspicion."

Sherlock looked away from him then, and John watched as a smile slowly spread across his face. "Sounds like my kind of guy," he whispered.

John was confused. "Wait, what does that mean?"

Sherlock looked back at him. "I'm sorry?"

"You said," John replied, "you said he was 'your type of guy'? What does that... I mean, do you... Are you...?"

Sherlock made a face. "Come on now John, get to the point, don't dawdle."

John was flustered. "No, I mean..! Like...relationships and...stuff. And. Are you... I mean, do you swing...?"

Sherlock's expression didn't change. "Still not following you."

"GAY!" John all but shouted, finally spitting the word out, before recoiling and taking a moment to cool off. "Are you gay, is what I meant."

Sherlock burst out laughing, causing John to all but fall off the bed in shock. "John, really? You thought that's what I meant?"

John made to speak, but kept his mouth shut in the end and let Sherlock speak.

"I literally meant that he sounded interesting," the other guy said, "as in someone I'd like to keep an eye on, learn more about, purely for my own want of understanding people...not that I would actively go out and pursue someone like that!"

John blushed and began spouting apologies.

"There's no need to apologise, John," Sherlock stopped him, "and, besides, would it matter if I were?"

John's eyes widened. "What? No! Of course not! It's all...fine. I mean, really. I have no problems with... It's all good, by me, really."

Sherlock smiled. "Glad to hear it, but you needn't worry. Relationships aren't my thing. The work, the learning, the chase, the adventure...that's where my interests lie."

John smiled back at him, ignoring the fact that he hadn't answered the question.


	2. Chapter 2

_Before you begin: thank you all for the wonderful reviews. You sure know how to make a man blush._  
_And FYI: all the characters are based on the BBC's characters, physically, except for John's brother, Harry, who is (in sticking with the books) a man, and Irene, who I've probably gone a bit my own way with. I hope you like it all the same though, and I'm sorry for the sheer amount of canon that I am raping as this thing progresses further and further..._  
_But, again, thank you for reading and reviewing. If I could give you all a hug, I would._  
_Love, ddggrule xx_

* * *

_**Chapter 2.**_

John couldn't remember the last time he'd sat and just talked with someone for hours on end. It was nearly midnight, and he and Sherlock literally hadn't moved from the room, caught up in getting to know each other.

While John had been careful not to approach the subject directly, it was clear from how Sherlock talked about his family, mainly his father, that there was no love lost there. While the famous Doctor Holmes was an idol to many, his son all but resented him.

"He can't understand why I don't wish to go into the family business, why I don't enjoy going to party after party, why I don't enjoying drowning myself in expensive clothes and trinkets," Sherlock had said, a mixture of anger and sadness in his eyes. "I read all his friends' and employers' and employees' intentions like _that_," he continued, snapping is fingers, "and tell him that most of them want nothing more than his company or business, simply because it looks good to be associated with him. But he can't see that. He can't see how selfish they all are."

"That's business for you," John added matter-of-factly.

Sherlock nodded. "He resents me for being so accusatory, and I'm convinced it's because he _knows_ I'm right. He would just never admit it. I mean, how could his disappointment of a son know anything about his world?" he added bitterly.

John smiled at him weakly.

They'd talked about many other things, from people and things to do at Mycroft (none of which Sherlock seemed to take that much interest in, apart from the academy's Laboratory Society - "Students can use them for whatever purpose they like?" he'd asked, with almost too much interest), as well as the classes they both took (they both shared Maths, were even in the same class, but whereas John was also taking Physics, Biology and Fitness, Sherlock was taking Criminology, Psychology and Chemistry).

"You're in the same class for Chemistry as Irene," John had noted, looking at his roommate's timetable. "You two will definitely get on," he added with an almost cheeky grin.

"Oh?" Sherlock queried, bemused. "She won't avoid me completely for fear of damaging her oh-so pristine reputation in the academy?"

This was one of those aspects of Sherlock that John found so interesting: the guy was evidently used to taking a backseat, being in the corner, not involving himself with other people. John had wondered to himself if Sherlock had any friends, and it saddened him that he knew the answer was almost definitely none.

"Are you always so self-deprecating?" John asked.

"It's not deprecation when you know it to be true," Sherlock responded with a straight face.

It made sense to John then, why he and Sherlock had talked for so long, and why Sherlock had been so open with his more personal matters. Sure, there's always that chemistry and ease of communication when you meet someone you click with, but John knew: Sherlock had never had this ease of contact with _anyone_. John realised in that moment that he was probably the first person Sherlock had ever shared any of this stuff with.

"I wouldn't be friends with someone who was like that, Sherlock," he responded. "I'll introduce you two. She knows I don't make friends with just anyone, so if she sees me with you - "

"Wait," Sherlock stopped John, staring at him, his eyes alight with something John couldn't quite put his finger on. "Friends? As in...you. And _me_?"

John smiled at him. "Yes, _you_. I'm sorry if it's a bit...forward, but I'd like to think I've made a good friend in you today, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock didn't break his stare, and John could see the smile that tugged at his lips. "Uhm...likewise," the taller guy responded at length, and John rested his hand on the other man's shoulder and smiled, before standing up.

"Right, now: sleep." he stated, still smiling. "First day's over, and tomorrow everything really begins."

He grabbed a towel and walked out of the room, heading down the corridor to the communal showers, leaving Sherlock sat on his bed.

After John had left, Sherlock changed into his pyjamas and got into bed, laying there and thinking. He wasn't expecting to meet someone like John here. Hell, he'd almost given up on the idea that he'd ever meet someone who could actually stand the sight of him. It felt...nice, and Sherlock was convinced he felt something begin to swell in his heart, an organ he thought he'd long since abandoned.

He hadn't noticed John coming back in the room and getting into his bed, but he heard a "Goodnight" come from across the room.

"Goodnight John," Sherlock said quietly back, before curling up and falling to sleep, a small smile across his face.

* * *

_Are you all awake yet, dear readers of mine?  
__Now that you've all had a good little chin-wag, it's time for Academy life to really begin. After all, the second day of school means the first day of lessons. Be sure to listen and learn; I couldn't live with writing a blog for the uneducated.  
__But what I can live with is knowing I'll be seeing you all turned out in your best for the annual Mycroft Initiation Ball next week. Have you all been shopping? Picked your designer?  
__Do the boys know what a corsage is yet?  
__I look forward to papping you all while you're there. And did a little bird told me that Mycroft's own namesake may be making an appearance? A man I'm sure you're all thrilled to meet, because let's face it: if I am, so are you.  
__xoxo Gossip Girl_

Students at Mycroft didn't have alarms. They had Gossip Girl.

John had missed being woken up over summer by the sound of his phone, and the early morning snippet of information all the students got from their friendly internet stalker. He glanced at the text and groaned, annoyed by the idea of playing dress-up for yet another one of the academy's parties. He was convinced he spent more time buying suits attending "soirées" at Mycroft than he actually did learning.

Almost as soon as he glanced over and noticed Sherlock wasn't in his bed, the man himself walked through the door, towel around his waist, back from a shower. John eyed his exposed chest, surprised that Sherlock wasn't as skinny as he'd thought he would be - while his muscles were no way near as pronounced as his own, and Sherlock was far leaner than John, there was still some definition and tone to his roommate's body.

Sherlock sat down on his bed and picked up his little black book John had found the other evening.

"It's a book of thoughts and observations," Sherlock said whilst flicking through the pages, "before you ask. Random nothings."

John sat up in his bed and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. "Good morning to you too."

Sherlock looked up at him, and they exchanged a smile before John yawned. "How long have you been up?" John asked.

"I always wake up at 6am," Sherlock replied, looking back down at his book.

John blinked. "What, _everyday_? You don't lie-in or anything?"

Sherlock gave him that Braindead Look again. "Yes John, everyday. Hence the 'always'. Is it such an awful idea to you?"

"Well, yes, kind of," John replied, scratching his head. "If it weren't for the Gossip Girl texts, I don't think I'd wake up. I like sleep, what can I say," he added with an innocent shrug.

"It's a distraction, a big fat flaw in our evolution," Sherlock added bitterly.

"But it's a necessary one, I'm afraid," John replied, "like eating and breathing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Breathing is boring, and so is eating, because this," he said, pointing a finger to his head, "this is all that matters. The rest is just...transport."

John threw off his covers with a sigh, and flung open the curtains, letting the morning light pour into the room. It was in that moment Sherlock realised the other man slept in boxer shorts, and nothing else; bathed in sunlight, his contoured torso was on full display, as well as his muscled, rugby player legs.

"Well, at least it's a nice day out," John remarked, looking over at Sherlock with a smile, and Sherlock, who thought his heart had just skipped a beat, snapped out of staring at the other man's form in appreciation, his face feeling unusually hot. Looking down at himself to hide his embarrassment, he noticed how inferior his body was to John's, and it made him ever so slightly...envious.

"I'm gonna go grab a shower and let you get changed," John said, retrieving a towel from his wardrobe, slinging it over his shoulder and heading out the door. "See you at breakfast?"

Sherlock nodded sheepishly and watched John leave. It's definitely a good thing the dorms were unisex, Sherlock thought to himself, as the sight of half-naked John strolling down the corridors would send most women into a frenzy...

* * *

It seemed to everyone, except John Watson, that Sherlock Holmes was nothing short of weird. As Mycroft's newest student walked across the courtyard to the school's canteen, passers-by shot him strange looks that he'd become more than accustomed to over the years. Because of his father and the nature of gossip in this academy, they all knew who he was, and, again, because of his father, they all thought he was a bit of a "freak".

He'd be lying to himself if he said it didn't bother him, but he'd rather be the way he was than like all the other people on the planet. They always seemed so stunned when he could figure them all out so quickly, whether it was what they were thinking or what they'd been doing the night before, but to Sherlock it was impossible not to notice; they were all so similar, all a product of the same society and social constraints, and so patterns were evident in all their behaviours, patterns that he could see and they could not. All of them shared something intrinsic, because they all went through the world sharing the same beliefs and social expectations of each other. There was no diversity, not really, not when you looked past the exterior (and, even then, comparisons were still not so hard to draw), and so predicting them and seeing right through them... Sherlock found it effortless.

He walked through the doors of the canteen, and a room of such people presented themselves to him.

Almost every head in the room turned to look at him, and those that didn't were quickly made to by their friend's nudging. Sherlock ignored it, walking straight ahead to join the queue for food. He'd already scouted out an unoccupied space in the corner of the expansive room, quiet and out of the way, and a perfect place to observe everyone else as they went about eating their breakfasts.

And there were a lot of people to observe: the canteen was an enormous space, with long polished wooden tables in columns up and down it, twelve in total, each just under two hundred foot long - the academy did have roughly two thousand students, after all, all glancing over at him.

He pulled up to the food bar, where smartly dressed dinner ladies plated up food for the students as they passed through, everything from a full English to a more continental breakfast to simply cereal.

"What can I get ya, m'love?" a rather petite, stout woman asked him from behind the counter (who was from Bristol, thought Sherlock, judging by the accent).

"Three slices of toast and a pot of strawberry jam, please," Sherlock replied with a smile.

The dinner lady gave him a confused look. "You sure that's all you want love? We have sausages and croissants and..."

"Yes, I know what you have on offer," Sherlock cut her off, putting his hand up; he'd already catalogued everything laid out before him. "Just toast and jam, please, thank you."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "Whatever floats yer boat sweet'eart."

He took his plate of food and strolled over to the empty corner, sitting down and taking the first bite into his food, when John strolled through the doors with an incredibly beautiful woman by his side.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock said aloud to himself.

He watched as they got their food, smiling and laughing at each other. John made some remark about her, which caused her to smack him on the arm and protest, a cheeky smile on her face. John was laughing back at her, threatening to empty a nearby bottle of ketchup all over her frankly immaculate black hair, making her squeal uncontrollably, arms flailing to ward John off. Sherlock couldn't help but suppress a smile at the two of them together.

If the man sat halfway across the room from Sherlock had thought his frequent glances his way had gone unnoticed by him, he'd be wrong. He had short-cut dark hair and a set of brilliant white teeth, which he seemed to often show off with a handsome smile. But his charming appearance was offset by his eyes, which said something else about him entirely: they literally gleamed with something dark, something malicious.

"Irene Adler," came John's voice as he strolled towards Sherlock with a grin, "I'd like to introduce you to Sherlock Holmes."

Irene walked over and took a seat down to the right of Sherlock, and his sense of smell was almost drowned in her heavenly aroma. Her jet hair was tied up and back, curled and left to cascade down her back, while a bit of curled fringe framed her face. Her skin was alabaster, her lips scarlet red, and her eyes were the most brilliant deep blue. Her cheekbones were high, and her face was something you'd expect to only find in high fashion photography. She was, in a word, luminous, but Sherlock could tell that not only did this woman know it, she used it to her advantage. Her beauty was her weapon.

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes," she said to him, her voice soft and inviting, and her body language nothing short of flirtatious; her eyebrows danced gracefully, yet suggestively, and her lips curled into a wicked grin.

"Charmed," Sherlock responded simply with a quick smile, before looking over at John who'd sat down to his left.

John smiled fondly at him, grabbing a fork before digging into his breakfast: a full English. A breakfast fit for a rugby player, Sherlock thought.

Irene caught the exchange of smiles between the two of them, and something stung her then: John had only met this Sherlock guy less than 24 hours ago, and yet the way they seemed to be around each other was almost unnaturally comfortable. She could've sworn they'd been friends for longer.

"So, Sherlock," she began, taking a bite out of her apple, the only piece of food on her plate, "is it true you didn't know the Earth revolves around the sun?"

Sherlock groaned, and John looked at him in surprise. "Wait, what? Sherlock, is this true?"

"Oh come on John," Irene cut in, "did you not read what Gossip Girl wrote in her first few messages of the term? The stuff about Sherlock not knowing his 'place in the universe'?"

John nodded, but still hadn't put two and two together.

Irene rolled her eyes. "At a benefit the great Dr. Holmes held a few weeks ago, Sherlock here was made to give a speech, and it came to light that he had no concept of the solar system, or most of space really."

Sherlock put his head in his hands, frustrated. "What does that _matter_?"

John looked concerned. "Wait, Sherlock, really? But it's, like, primary school knowledge..!"

Sherlock shot him a dark look. "That may be, but why is it important? Why should I dedicate it to memory? It's useless to me. This," he said, tapping his head, "this I make sure to only fill with information that is _useful _to me, and that isn't."

He took a rather vicious bite from his toast, and Irene smiled at his almost childlike tantrum. John continued to look flabbergasted, before the muscles in his face relaxed. "I guess," he said, "in the grand scheme of things, we don't really need to know that. Maybe."

Irene looked at him, surprised, as did Sherlock.

"But John," Irene protested, "are...are you defending him? Someone you've just _met_? Taking his word like it's law?"

John thought to himself for a moment, wondering why Irene was being so forceful. "No, I'm just appreciating another point of view," he said to her slowly. "If Sherlock has no need to know about the solar system, I say fine. Let him not."

It was pathetic and stupid, Irene knew it, but for the briefest of moments she was furious at John, and she didn't know why. He was backing up this random stranger, this random _freak_, who he'd only just met. Normally, him and her were always on the same page, letting new people know that they were the dynamic duo, unbreakable, thinking as one, together. Yet here he was, taking sides with this skinny weirdo over _her_, his best friend of more years than she cared to remember.

She tried to calm herself down, compose herself mentally before speaking. She shouldn't be so put out by this, she knew it. John's made a new friend, and she should be happy for him, and (to be fair to Sherlock) he was actually quite cute, and she chastised herself for mentally calling him a freak when she hardly knew the guy. It was just...so ridiculous!

"Irene?" John asked her, worry etched in his face. "You ok in there?"

She glanced back over him, closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them, and smiled. "Yes, yes I'm fine. I'm sorry John, and Sherlock," she looked over at him, "I'm sorry also."

Sherlock smiled back at her, and realised she was being genuine.

"It's just...John, do you realise how weird this is?" she asked him. "You two already give off this vibe with each other, like you're made for each other."

John and Sherlock looked at each other, eyebrows raised, before looking back at Irene. "We do?" they said, however unintentionally, in unison.

Irene laughed. "Oh my god! See what I mean? Same wavelength or _what_?"

Sherlock smiled, and John felt something flutter in his stomach at the sight of it. "Is that so strange?" John asked her, suddenly a bit uneasy.

Irene shrugged. "Well, think about it," she began, "how long have you two known each other?"

Sherlock and John looked at each other, thinking, before Sherlock replied, "Well, we met at 4.30pm last night, and it's 8.30am now, so sixteen hours exactly."

Irene gave them both a look that said "_See what I mean?_", and there was a moment of silence.

"I dunno, some people just click like that," John then replied, almost a little too defensively, and both Irene and Sherlock picked up on it. Irene chose to ignore it, though Sherlock couldn't help but wonder to himself about something he couldn't quite decide at that moment in time.

Irene shrugged again, and took another bite out of her apple. "Whatever," she said through a carefree smile, before two thousand phones sounded into life.

_Oh, how I've missed a Mycroft breakfast!  
__All those aromas flooding out of that building, it's enough to make you wonder: how can people stomach this dieting business?  
__But, oh dearie me, what do I see here? Is that our talented John Watson and our beautiful Irene Adler sat at a table with the newbie? I think it is.  
__And it seems the rather dashing James Moriarty is taking more than a vested interest in them all...or is it just the new fellow?  
__Either way you lot, watch out: we all know about Moriarty's tricks.  
__Have I stirred enough for you, dear readers?  
__Bon appetit!  
__xoxo Gossip Girl_

Sherlock looked up from the text to see that both Irene and John's faces had shot over the room in the same direction, both staring at the dark haired stranger with the menacing eyes he'd noticed earlier.

"That must be Moriarty then, I take it?" he asked the two of them, and they looked back at him.

"Yeah," Irene replied with a snarl, "that's Moriarty, and a right piece of work he is too."

John rolled his eyes. "You're just pissed off at him because he's the only bloke in this whole academy that doesn't worship the ground you walk on."

Irene gave him a dangerous look. "John!"

Sherlock smiled; the thought of someone actually rejecting Irene amused him greatly, as the man would have to be either brilliant or stupid. That, and Irene would probably be genuinely offended by the idea.

"It's not _that_," she retorted, pausing for a moment with a disgusted look on her face. "Well, maybe it is a bit..."

John and Sherlock both exchanged a smile.

"But," she began again, "it's something else as well. There's just something about him that isn't...right."

Sherlock looked back over at Moriarty, and, as luck would have it, he was looking straight back at him. They held the stare for a moment, Sherlock's face blank and concentrating, Moriarty's holding a slightly twisted grin. He looked at Sherlock like he was prey, and Sherlock felt the urge to shudder slightly.

"He's fascinating," Sherlock all but whispered to himself, but Moriarty seemed to hear it, and his face lit up as he grinned like a cheshire cat.

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned back to see John looking at him intently. "Sherlock?"

He blinked. "S-Sorry John, lost in thought there, sorry..."

John grinned, patting him on the shoulder. "It's alright, I know the feeling."

"Just be careful, Sherlock," Irene said. "If Gossip Girl's right and Moriarty's got his eye on you, then you're in for some trouble."

Sherlock smiled. "You needn't worry about that. You can't be me and not be a little used to some...abuse in schools."

John was glad Sherlock was looking over at Irene in that moment, because if he'd actually seen Sherlock's face as he'd delivered those words, he knew he'd have the strangest urge to give the man a hug.

"Moriarty doesn't do abuse like your average school bully, Sherlock," Irene replied. "He's clever, and never gets caught, even though we all know, somewhere inside of us, that it's always him."

Sherlock clapped his hands together and rubbed them. "Excellent," he said with a beaming smile, "an intelligent foe. At least I won't be bored."

John couldn't help but grinning, resisting the urge to say "Typical Sherlock" out loud, before then wondering how on earth he could possibly know that was typical of Sherlock having only just met him.

Irene smiled before standing up. "Well, just stay out of trouble. I'm off to my first class. I'll catch you both on the steps at lunch?"

John nodded at Irene. "Of course, I'll see you there. Except," he added with the point of a finger, "I'll be buying lunch today, understood?"

"If there's fish in it," Irene replied, pointing her own finger back at John, "I swear to god, Watson, you're a dead man."

John smiled at her, and she smiled back, before turning and walking off.

Sherlock watched her leave, turning back at the door to blow him a kiss, which made him grin sheepishly. He heard John get up beside him, and looked up at him.

"Well, you'll be getting no kiss from me," John said with a grin, "but I'll see you on the steps at lunch. You know your way round this place, yes?"

Sherlock smiled back up at him. "If I don't, I'm sure I'll find my way, thank you."

"No problem," John replied, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder again, wondering why it seemed so natural to do so; he was never this physical with his other friends, let alone with someone who may as well be a stranger.

He removed his hand and wandered over to the canteen door, turning back to give Sherlock a smile before walking out, and Sherlock felt very warm inside when he did so.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3.**

Mycroft Academy campus was in chaos.

Students hurriedly evacuated their classrooms, cheering and shouting with happiness as lessons were interrupted, while teachers were running around desperately trying to maintain some order, shepherding everyone out onto the field.

As John made his way over, he tried to find Irene and Sherlock; halfway through a particularly uninteresting Physics class, the academy's fire alarm had blared into life, snapping him out of his daydreaming, and within seconds the quiet humdrum of the school day erupted into bedlam.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and John checked it:

_Text: Irene Adler  
__Get to the science block, now!_

Confused, John turned and started running against the flow of bustling sixth formers, some of them shouting "Hey!" in protest as he barged past them, others "John, you're going the wrong way!" after him.

Sure enough, as he approached the building, black smoke was billowing up into the air out of nearly every window. Students were being forced to move away from the building by anxious professors, but in amongst them all John spotted Irene stood talking to a particularly angry teacher.

And stood right next to her, head to toe in soot and ash, was Sherlock.

"...told you, I don't know what happened!" Irene defended herself to the professor as John walked towards them. "All I know is one second I turned my back, and then this blundering idiot manages to blow us all up!"

She shot a dark look at Sherlock, who shrugged nonchalantly, looking oddly satisfied with himself.

"Well?" the old professor (no, the _head _professor of their science department) asked angrily at Sherlock, "Care to explain yourself young man?"

"The experiment you gave us was dull, pointless, and has been done countless times before," Sherlock responded in a neutral tone, seemingly oblivious to the carnage around him and his own slightly comical appearance. "I told you what would happen, why it would happen, how it would happen...but you still insisted I do it. And while the rest of the class might be content with such a mind-numbingly dull piece of science, I was not."

John watched as the professor's face went red with rage and shock, disbelieving that a pupil of his would talk to him in such a way. "You ignorant child! Have you no respect?" he all but shouted in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock didn't flinch. As he stood there so impeccably cool and controlled (to John at least) Sherlock seemed years older. John remembered he'd never asked Sherlock just how he was in the same year as him, despite him being younger. He made a mental note to do so later.

"In my experience, professor," Sherlock replied, staring the elderly man down, his eyes highlighted alarmingly in his now blackened face, "respect is something that can be earned and lost, and whilst I may have given you the benefit of the doubt, as I do all teachers, the moment you insulted my intelligence by a) not listening to me and b) making me waste my time with such a menial task, you lost it from me."

The professor stood, mouth agape, speechless.

"So," Sherlock continued, clapping his hands together as his face lit up with a beaming smile, "I carried out an experiment of my own I did _not _know the outcome to, one that would allow me to detect the presence of botulinum poison in the blood much more conveniently than standard methods."

He looked over at John then, and seemed pleased that his face was incredulous.

"The insolence," the professor said through gritted teeth, finding his voice. "You think you're capable of discovering such a thing? You? A sixteen-year old _boy_?"

So he was sixteen then; two years younger than John.

The professor's fists were clenched in his anger. Sherlock shrugged. "I'd like to think so, yes," he replied, "though this attempt was a rather miserable failure..."

"FAILURE?" The professor snapped, and both Irene and John jumped. "You blew up my classroom. You've smoked out the entire block. You're goddamn lucky no one was _killed_!"

"A minor setback," Sherlock said, before sniffing and wrinkling his nose, wiping some of the soot off of his forehead.

John was convinced the professor was about to all but murder Sherlock, so dark was the look he gave him. "I don't give a damn who your father is, boy, or about this self-important attitude of yours. You're to go to the headmaster, and he will deal with you. I expect nothing less than an expulsion for such reckless behavior."

There was a moment of silence. And then.

"I made him do it as a dare," John lied out of nowhere, and Sherlock, the professor and Irene all turned to look him, utter horror and shock etched in all their faces.

Quite why he'd said it, John couldn't put his finger on. He hadn't realised the words had left his mouth for a moment after saying them, and then he felt the panic rise within him.

Why had he done that? Why had he incriminated himself? He barely knew this guy, this Sherlock Holmes, not really. It hadn't been two days, and without thinking he'd just put his immaculate record (and no doubt his future) on the line for this strange, brilliant man; this man he wanted to know more about, this man whose simple presence and conversation seemed to deeply fascinate John. What was this? _Why _was this?

Irene marched towards him. "John, what are you -"

"Irene!" John cut her off, and she stopped and stood on the spot.

Then Sherlock. "No, but John, you can't -"

"Shut up Sherlock," John cut him off with a stare. "You've not even been here a week, and you're not taking the fall for something I forced you into."

Sherlock wanted to scream at him, to punch him in the face. What was he _doing_? He could handle expulsion; if this academy didn't want his keen mind, then as far as he was concerned they didn't deserve it. But now John had gone and dragged himself into it, and he was suddenly responsible for the both of them. Why would John do that, this odd roommate of his he hardly knew? Why would he protect him like that?

His eyes were so intense as he stared at Sherlock, this beautiful dark auburn colour that Sherlock felt powerless before. Every inch of him wanted to protest, to expose John as the liar he was. But those eyes, those _eyes_, they wouldn't let him. Maybe it was because this was a situation Sherlock had never anticipated, had never been in before, but there was a part of him that also didn't want to protest. It was if John's eyes were saying _I'm sticking by you on this one, so deal with it._ Sherlock found himself both resenting and loving the feeling.

"Both of you," the professor said, bringing them back to reality, "get to the headmaster's office."

The professor was looking at John like he'd just brought his world crashing down. He seemed disturbed, and deeply disappointed. "Now," he added firmly at the end, fists shaking by his sides.

Sherlock hurried off quickly, wanting to stay ahead of John and not have to look at him, and as John turned to leave, Irene said "You really piss me off sometimes, John Watson."

If John didn't know any better, he thought he could hear tears in her voice, but he continued to walk after Sherlock and towards the headmaster's study.

* * *

The headmaster's room was located in the academy's office building, a labyrinth of offices dealing with everything from finance to student support.

All on its own, on the fifth and top floor, the study was situated, a long narrow corridor leading up to its entrance, three lonely chairs left outside for the students to wait on.

John was sat on the chair closest to the door, Sherlock on the chair farthest from it, the third unoccupied chair between them. To both of them, it felt like the longest distance any two people could be apart.

They both had their hands clasped together in their laps, John's head facing down and Sherlock's facing up, resting against the wall behind them. Thoughts swirled through both their minds: John had never been sat here in all his years at Mycroft, whereas Sherlock was more than used to dealing with the various headmasters of the schools he'd been through.

There was this indescribable tension between them that they both felt, and both knew the other felt too. They both couldn't understand why John had done what he'd done, and just what it meant. John and Sherlock both knew it meant something, they knew it, but they were both equally as flummoxed as to exactly what.

John's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to read.

_Oh my, oh my.  
__Only here two days, and already our infamous newbie's got the whole school in a muddle. I expected no less really; his reputation precedes him.  
__But while you are all suffering registration formalities out in the cold, the man himself and (get this) John Watson have both just gone into school office.  
__No doubt our headmaster will be thrilled to see them.  
__Was our star pupil in on this? Or was it, perhaps, an unusual act of friendship?  
__Or is friendship the wrong word...?  
__xoxo Gossip Girl_

John snarled at the blog update, in dismay over all the theories every pupil at the academy would now no doubt be stirring up.

"Cheers, Gossip Girl," he mumbled to himself, before noticing Sherlock had his hand held out in the periphery of his vision.

He passed his friend over the phone, neither of them moving their heads to look at each other, and Sherlock took it, their fingers brushing, and suddenly John felt very uncomfortable.

Sherlock glanced over the text, trying to disregard the volt of electricity that had shot through their fingers as John handed him the phone, and not succeeding.

He handed John back the phone, concerned by what he'd read: if he and John weren't expelled, he knew that this message would be enough to keep people theorising for the rest of the year about the two of them. While he himself couldn't care less, he found himself hating the idea of John having a rough year on account of him.

"Stop thinking about it," John said aloud, breaking the silence and taking back his phone.

Sherlock looked over at him, the first time since they'd sat down in here. "How did you know I was?"

John turned his head to look at Sherlock, and their eyes met. The gaze lingered for a moment, their eyes speaking to each other, and then he shrugged, rolling his eyes. "I honestly don't know. Good guess."

Sherlock grinned, and John grinned back. "I think Irene had a point about us, y'know," Sherlock said, "about us being too comfortable around each other already."

John laughed to himself briefly. "Believe me, I understand it as little as you do."

They sat for a moment both staring at each other, suddenly lost for words. John found himself captivated at how unruly Sherlock's hair was, the wisps of black curling around and overlapping one another at random, and he wondered if Sherlock had ever put a comb or a brush through it; in turn, Sherlock was mesmerised by how well-kept John's brown hair was, shiny and flat, brushed across his head, framing his angular jaw and wide forehead.

John blinked and felt his cheeks flush slightly, and turned away for a second, Sherlock quickly doing the same.

"Why..." Sherlock began hesitantly, "Why did you do that, back there?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs, and it was John's turn to lean his head back against the wall.

"I'd like to say I don't know," John replied with a sigh. "But I think I do."

"Oh?" Sherlock wondered, looking over at the other man who still kept his gaze towards the ceiling.

"You're my friend," he said simply. "We may have only just met, but there's this big part of me that feels that very strongly."

Sherlock sat in silence, still staring at John, unsure of what to say. He wanted John to keep talking.

And John did. "I dunno...It's just...like, last night, we just spoke and it flowed...and I could just talk to you, and listen to you, like it was the most natural thing in the world."

John's hands moved around, confused and erratic as he tried to explain himself; he was having a very difficult time of doing so. "I've never had that," he continued, "with anyone, any friend, anything...not even Irene, not really."

Sherlock noted in John's eyes that the last statement seemed news even to John, like he'd only just realised it.

"So," John went on, "standing up for you there...can you blame me? You make me want to know more about you, make me want to tell you more about me. And..."

John looked over at Sherlock then, a warm look as his eyes searched for the words. "Well, that's friendship, real friendship..." he smiled, and then looked away again, "At least, how I look at it. I'd be a fool to let something like that disappear before it's even really begun."

There was a long silence as John waited for Sherlock to say something, anything. He didn't look back at Sherlock, instead focusing on his hands again, as some part of him was too afraid to. Why was risking so much on someone he'd only known a day?

"What," Sherlock said finally, slowly, "what if you don't like what you find? What if this risk turns out to be...not worth it?"

Sherlock's voice was tinged with something John couldn't place; anxiety, reluctance, fear?

If Sherlock was being honest with himself, he was absolutely terrified. What was this? Why would someone want his companionship? Why would someone want his friendship? What did he, Sherlock Holmes, have to offer?

"That's what friendship is," John replied simply, comfortably. "Trust...it's all one big gamble in the end."

He looked back over at Sherlock, whose eyes were once again looking down at his hands, alive with confusion, but before he could say anything back, the headmaster's door swung open and they were both beckoned in.

* * *

Irene sat in the academy's courtyard.

She'd tried to work and do something productive with her free period, but Gossip Girl's latest update was annoying her and rendered concentrating on anything else a waste of effort.

She took slow, pensive sips from her coffee, occasionally brushing aside the rogue lock of hair that blew into her vision. The sun was out and it was warm, but this was London; the weather was always double-edged, and it was a very windy edge at that.

"Penny for your thoughts, my dear?"

Quite when he'd strolled over she didn't know, but she looked up, and there stood before her Jim Moriarty, looking all at once as handsome and superior and dangerous as ever.

"What do you want now Momo?" she asked him with a sigh. She wasn't in the mood for company.

Jim chuckled to himself, and moved to sit down beside her. "Momo?" he said with queer amusement, "you haven't called me that in _years_."

Irene shuffled in her seat as he sat down, edging away from him slightly, remaining silent and taking another sip from her drink. What did he want?

"But, then again," he continued, ignoring her discomfort, "it has been a while since we were such best friends, has it not?"

She couldn't help but roll her eyes and grin herself. "Times change," she said to no one in particular, "and people change."

Jim scoffed beside her, and she turned herself to meet his eyes. Big mistake.

They were so dark, so very black, as if all one large dilated pupil, and they betrayed nothing as to what he was feeling, like he was detached from everything and everyone.

It's why they were friends, Irene remembered, the day she'd come to Mycroft, young and wide-eyed and so very naïve. This strange boy, that's what Moriarty was, this loner at the back of classrooms, ignored in lessons and on the playground. And she knew it was because of his eyes, because no one could really decide quite _what_ was wrong with him, but it was widely accepted that there was most certainly something. So she befriended him, when no one else would, took sympathy on him and had grown to care for him.

She was so naïve. The academy had changed that, though. _He_ had changed that.

"I see your new favourite has his _own_ new favourite, if Gossip Girl is to be believed," he said with underlying malice, enjoying the intimacy his eyes demanded of her, and exploiting the damage it could do to its full potential.

"Don't forget Momo," she replied, narrowing her eyes, "that I've known you for years. Your mind games are getting just a little bit tiring after all this time."

He grinned then, yanking back suddenly in his seat, shocking Irene, as this high-pitched laughter she knew all too well came out of his mouth.

"Oh my dear," he giggled, feigning to wipe tears from his eyes, "is that what you think this is? Still? I think it's _you_ who are becoming tiring, no?"

Irene broke the look they shared then, almost too fast and cursing herself, giving way too much away to a man who could already read her inside and out.

"I'd love to stay and chat," she began, collecting her things hurriedly, "but...well."

She leveled a dark stare at him, whilst he returned the look with that manic grin he loved wearing so often. "So be it," he replied simply, while his eyes shifted dangerously for a second.

She paused for a moment, holding the look, before turning abruptly away from the bench, away from the outside world...and away from _him_.

"I'm sure we'll be seeing much more of each other, my dear," he called after her, and the very thought sent shivers down her spine.

* * *

_**PHEW!  
I'm so very, very, VERY sorry for the severe lack of updates here folks.  
I find myself having moved to Manchester University to study, and it's all been a bit of a whirlwind! But I've finally found time to set aside for writing my fictions and fanfictions, and I couldn't be happier.  
Thank you for sticking with me this far!  
The next update will be along MUCH sooner (like, in a couple of days sooner!), so fear not: this story's still very much alive!  
Apologies again for being such a deserter.  
Hope you enjoy reading, as I enjoy writing!  
Comments and reviews are always appreciated.  
Much love and appreciation,  
~ ddggrule x **_


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